


Pissenlit

by herbailiwick



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991)
Genre: Amnesia, Concussions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 06:49:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16592918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: Gaston gets amnesia and won’t leave LeFou’s face alone.





	Pissenlit

"Gaston, please," LeFou says, ducking out of the way of the hand that wants to leave his shoulder in favor of his face. Ever since the coach crashed, Gaston’s been clingy.   


"We're best friends, you said?" Gaston's voice is slightly raised above the cooing 'Ettes vying for the position of most caring. He’s patting LeFou’s face and the awkwardness hasn’t abated at all. 

“I have dimpled cheeks too,” teases Laurette, leaning so close Gaston could potentially rise up to meet his lips with hers. “With some rouge!”  


"Rude," Gaston comments, shifting so he’s looking at LeFou again, the expression rooting LeFou to the spot. He’s searching, and serious, for all the ridiculous touching. “You all titter like birds.”

Laurette pouts. 

“I suppose we should leave him,” Claudette says with a sensible sigh. “So he can rest. You’ll be fine watching over him.”  


“He’s lovely like this,” Laurette says, letting her finger trace the bottom line of Paulette’s bandage where it meets his forehead, the action drawing LeFou’s gaze for so long he finds Gaston tugging him closer by the shoulder before he realizes he should stop it again. 

“Hey!” He pushes at the hand half-heartedly.  


“Don’t let him sleep yet,” cautions Paulette, chewing at one of her nails. “He’s concussed, and not himself.” 

They’re gone by the time LeFou has managed to get that strong hand to let go of his shoulder. Gaston, the man himself, pouts, much like Laurette had. "LeFou, you said?” he tries. “Interesting name." 

LeFou's checking out how nice Gaston looks, wondering how much to tell him about why he has that nickname—Gaston's never asked before—as the silence the ‘Ettes leave turns thick. The hand LeFou is eyeing, a bow-stringing hand slackened from lack of needing uphold a manly image, beckons him nearer, the danger of the hunt still evident there.

"I have a question to ask. I expect an answer," Gaston says in susurrus, all footfalls through brush, focused on a creature whose ears are just starting to perk up.

"Yes, Gaston?" The hand that coaxed him there finds his shoulder yet again, the touch firm. Gaston doesn’t want him to leave. He'd wanted the others to leave. Granted, LeFou is not giggling, or, well, he lets out a nervous giggle of his own as he thinks that, but he’s not fussing over Gaston (though he’s been known to).

Actually, Gaston is sort of fussing over _him_.

"Are we lovers?" Gaston asks, casual as you please. LeFou leans into the hand slightly as it easily pulls him up toward the side of the bed.

Surely, Gaston’s gaze is too steady for that unsolicited question. 

"No," he blows out as a breath. He has wished in the past, and, as if he’d affected the petals of a dent-de-lion with that exhaled answer, he wishes yet again, like the petals might carry his thoughts of not minding being Gaston’s out into the cosmos, or at least out into the room.

Gaston doesn't know, doesn't know how many times LeFou has wasted metaphorical and literal breaths over the topic of him, his beauty and his strength and his intimacy. Enough to power a field of petals and send them out for miles.

"But, you're so perfect," Gaston says, with honest relaying like he’s saying it to Belle, only he’s never said that to Belle, though he’s said she’s beautiful, and she is.

“I’m ugly, Gaston,” LeFou points out.  


His toe scrapes the floor as he’s hauled up by the man leaning over the side of the bed. Lifted, and suddenly resting atop the man’s torso, “Easy there, Gaston!” he teases, but his breath has not fully returned to him, must be out in the field.

There’ve been moments. Drunken ones, usually. A heated gaze that never lasts long. Of course, Gaston never exactly hesitates to grab LeFou as he wishes (though hardly ever touching his face). That was something people of typical stature did sometimes, especially ones who were as egotistical as Gaston, like LeFou didn’t deserve full consideration as a human being. Many actually thought so.

There was that time they were hiding from the bear. Gaston wrapped around him, pressing him so close to that chest the chest hair pressed against his cheek where the shirt gaped open and that heartbeat soothed his ear. “Shouldn’t have come out with me,” Gaston had scolded. LeFou hadn’t pointed out that he’d tried to stay at home and recover, only to be dragged along by Gaston anyway. 

“If you die here, it’s your own fault,” he'd continued. The only reason LeFou had a limp he couldn’t run with was the hunter himself. Gaston’s embrace, LeFou had learned then, felt like lounging on a sun-warmed rock that had decided to be proactive about the human-warming.

It feels that way, years later, and warmer than he’d recalled, LeFou notes, and it’s incredibly affecting.

“You look at me like we are. Are you in love with me? Do we kiss?” The large hand dances along his back, and he’s quickly growing heated by the thrill of danger, of possibility, of matching heat.   


“We don’t!” LeFou expresses, but he dares not move, unable to disapprove of the glint of purpose in Gaston’s eyes, the languid intention in his touch.  


“But, you are?” That furrowed, perfect brow looks begging to be kissed smooth. If only he was taller, able to get a little more leverage.   


If only he was braver.

He nods, just nods hard, the truth freeing and a little shameful. Will Gaston remember this when he recalls what it is to be Gaston again? “Of course I am,” he admits. “But it’s all stolen glances and innocent nights in the same bed. We’re best friends.” Gaston sometimes treats him like a punching bag, but no man is closer to him than LeFou. It’s no worse than where LeFou came from.

There are lips on his. Perfect, questing lips, and, even though Gaston may be very confused, a little kissing never hurt anyone. He moans into it, curling his fingers into the hair escaping Gaston’s hair tie. This moment needs to last, needs to carry him through Gaston remembering who he is and into him realizing what the two of them could be.

Gaston curls onto his side as he breaks the kiss, holding LeFou against him, protective like when they’d hid, though not afraid.

“We’ve never done that,” he says, confused.   


“That’s what I’ve been saying,” LeFou exhales. He’s lightheaded. He’s supposed to make sure Gaston’s going to stay conscious, but his world has been pinned upside-down like he’s been pinned upside-down by Gaston before, and it’s even hotter with Gaston needing him so openly.  


“You should rest,” he continues as he snuggles into Gaston’s chest, wishing he didn’t have to play nursemaid.  


The voice, in response, hovers right by his ear, surprising another moan from him. “How will you reward me if I do?” it asks. Gaston is going to find out just how if he isn’t careful. LeFou’s tempted to convince him to take his shirt off. It needs washing, anyway, if they’re being practical.  


They’re not being practical. “I’ll listen to your heart, to your breath, from here,” LeFou says. “I’ll even ward off any nightmares.” It’s usually LeFou that has those.

“Kiss me when I’m Gaston again, just the way you know me,” Gaston suggests pleasantly. He hums to himself a little tune, one that he obviously knows, but LeFou doesn’t.

There should be plenty of dents-de-lion taking root in the tavern floor.


End file.
